


with the words you borrow (only place that you've known)

by hito



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Meeting the parent, so much fluff and angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-15 23:44:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hito/pseuds/hito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles thinks it's hilarious how Derek gets all nervous around his dad, because c'mon, really, it's <i>Derek</i>.  </p>
<p>Fill for <a href="http://teenwolfkink.livejournal.com/6131.html?thread=4174835#t4174835">the meme</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with the words you borrow (only place that you've known)

Stiles' key is already in the lock when Derek's hand comes down suddenly on his, pressure on his fingers halting the twist of his wrist. 

"What?" he asks, turning into Derek. 

"We should knock," Derek says. 

Stiles blinks. "We should what?" 

"It's polite," Derek says. "We should--" 

"I _live_ here!" 

"--be respectful." 

Shaking Derek's restraint off, Stiles shoves the door open, stepping inside and turning around to welcome Derek to his home with a flourish. "Mi casa es su casa," he announces, placing a hand over his heart and bending at the waist romantically. The only thing missing is a rose between his teeth. "Entrez-vous, mon--" He pauses, trying to think of another word. His French is not extensive. "Garcon--ami." 

Derek frowns at him. "Those are two different languages." 

"I am a multilingual genius!" 

"Entrez," Derek corrects grumpily. 

"Entre nous," Stiles says in a low voice, sliding close to Derek before grabbing his shirtfront and dragging him over the threshold as he finishes brightly, "I'm not really interested in having my grammar in a language I don't speak corrected. Plus, the steak is on the grill." 

Stiles releases Derek and makes a beeline for the kitchen. His dad is sitting at the table with the morning paper. He hadn't had a chance to look at it earlier; he'd been too busy with his futile attempt to stave off Derek's incursion into their evening meal. 

"Hey. You keep an eye on that meat for me?" 

His dad grunts, glancing up, gaze passing over Stiles and sharpening on the man behind him. 

Stiles turns around to include Derek, but the cheerful words die in his throat when he sees Derek lurking in the doorway, one shoulder concealed by the door, the other barely peeking into the room. 

"Dude, I thought you weren't going to be rude?" 

His dad grunts in agreement again, and Derek sidles into the room. 

"Dad, you've met Derek," Stiles says. "Although he does look different without the cuffs, I know." Derek twitches; Stiles can feel the movement against his back. He hadn't realised Derek was standing so close. "Derek, my dad." 

"I'm Stiles' dad," Stiles' dad says, rising to his feet to stretch a hand out and bare his teeth at Derek. 

Stiles doesn't really want his dad doing that, because while he doesn't actually think Derek will interpret it as a challenge and respond accordingly, he doesn't really want to take that chance when they're doing the whole meet the parent thing, because that is singular, _one_ , the only other opinion in the world that counts here, and maybe Stiles wouldn't care so much about his dad's opinion if he had another authority to appeal to, but it is what it is. 

"Yeah, meet my dad," Stiles says, searching for a way to diffuse the tension building inside him. "And his guns!" He reaches out and squeezes his dad's bicep in demonstration. "Not as scary as his actual guns. You know, his service--" 

Derek leans past him abruptly to take his dad's hand. "Sir," he says curtly. 

"Wow, sir," Stiles says, amused with both Derek's formality and their tough-guy handshake. Stiles doesn't do tough-guy handshakes; Lydia has proven that they make him yelp. He thinks his dad may be determined to covertly crush Derek's bones into dust. The handshake lasts so long Stiles gets bored. "Okay guys. Back to your corners. Getting a little jealous here." 

He bats at them until they part and retreat slightly. 

"I do have several government-issued weapons," Stiles' dad says pleasantly. 

"Sheriff!" Stiles explains. "As you know. Because he's arrested you." 

"And I would never ordinarily use them other than in the course of my duty." 

"Incident reports are so long and boring," Stiles tells Derek. "And they make you see the shrink three times if you discharge your weapon. Three times!" 

"But everybody has a breaking point." 

"My dad's breaking point when it comes to me is kind of low," Stiles informs Derek, thinking of the frustrated words exchanged over the dried mud on his trainers this morning. Stiles was just glad his dad didn't know how much fun he'd had getting it, sneaking through the woods last night, climbing a tree and crawling through the undergrowth in a doomed attempt to avoid Derek's detection, to avoid _Derek_ , though he never actually wants to do that, and last night was no exception, because when Derek had cornered Stiles he'd shoved him down onto the ground and dragged his teeth from Stiles' collarbone to his mouth, and Stiles can't think about this now. 

He'd thrown his clothes in the wash, but his trainers had slipped his mind. 

"Understood," Derek says, nodding stiffly. 

His dad doesn't seem to be very impressed with that, glowering suspiciously as he sinks back into his chair, but all he says is, "Stiles, the steak?" 

"Damn it!" Stiles says, springing into action. "The steak!" 

"You said medium rare," his dad says mildly. "That's not overcooked." 

"I said rare," Stiles moans despondently. 

"Who eats a steak rare?" his dad asks. 

"It retains the flavour," Stiles informs him loftily. 

"You eat yours medium _well_ ," his dad reminds him. 

"It's fine." Derek's voice is low, but it startles Stiles anyway. He's being pretty quiet. "I'll have it however you are." 

Stiles flips Derek's slab onto a plate and scoffs, "Right. You want your meat charred because that's the way my dad likes his." 

"That's fine," Derek says flatly. 

Stiles raises an eyebrow. "Not all little boys want to date their dads." His dad looks at Derek and makes a derisive noise Stiles chooses not to acknowledge, tapping the table when Derek doesn't take his place. "You don't have to wait on us." 

Derek tumbles to his seat, the jerky movement lacking his usual grace. 

"What'd you do at work today?" Stiles asks his dad, keeping an eye on the grill. 

"Worked," his dad says. "No details necessary. How long have you been dating my son, Derek?" 

"Uh--" 

"Because he is _barely_ legal, and I am sworn to uphold the law, so this is a matter of some import to me." 

"Not long enough to trouble the courts," Stiles lies. 

His dad's steak isn't quite as his dad prefers it, but they are done with this conversation, and Stiles drops his dad's plate on the table with a pointed clatter. 

There's silence behind him while he stares at his dinner on the grill, operating under the assumption that a watched steak always cooks faster. When he glances around his father is staring at Derek like _he's_ about to get eaten for dinner, so Stiles abandons his quest for a properly cooked meal and joins them at the table. 

After a couple minutes, Stiles says, "You're all being so quiet because the food's that good, huh? Because I'm awesome." No response. "And I know it. I have no need for validation." 

"It's--" Derek starts, but his dad interrupts, "So, what do you do to earn money, Derek?" 

Derek shuts up fast and maybe even leans slightly away from Stiles' dad, which is rude but also hilarious. 

"I have some money," Derek says. "I don't work." 

Stiles winces, because he can already see exactly how this conversation is about to crash and burn, and sure enough, sixty seconds later he's squeezing _Derek's_ bicep in his _dad's_ direction, desperately saying, "And it takes a _lot_ of time and focus and dedication to work out that much, dad, and Derek doesn't have a reason for it because he doesn't need a reason, it's a hobby, it's not like he's in a motorcycle gang or anything, Beacon Hills doesn't even _have_ a motorcycle gang, and Derek is not in any kind of gang!" 

He draws a preparatory breath, but his dad just raises an eyebrow, because obviously he's already run background on Derek and is aware of his lack of gang affiliation. Stiles is probably just making him suspicious. 

"And anyway, he works on his car a lot with Isaac and stuff," Stiles says. 

This is not what Derek does with Isaac, but he can't tell his dad the truth, and he thinks his improvisation will suffice. Until he sees his dad's _face_. 

"You spend a lot of time with teenage boys?" his dad asks. 

"Yes," Derek says flatly. 

"Yes!" Stiles bleats. "Nothing untoward about it! Derek has to go, he doesn't like his steak, I did it wrong, stop asking him, nothing!" 

Stiles wrenches Derek out of his seat and out of the room, ignoring his father's quizzical gaze. 

"Hah hah!" he tries weakly once they're alone, and at Derek's vaguely haunted look, "Not actually as bad as it could have been, dude. But maybe let me do the talking next time." 

He pats Derek on the back consolingly and shoves him out the door, because he knows if he tries to spirit Derek up to his room or even lean in for a goodnight kiss his dad will appear, primed to deliver some kind of divine vengeance even though that isn't really his dad's kind of gig at all, and--really, Stiles just doesn't want the memory of his dad watching him attempting an innocent kiss ambushing him at inopportune, less innocent moments, like a no-sex ninja. 

His imaginary father is sneaky like that. 

He waves Derek off glumly, shuts the door, and turns around into his actual father. 

He bites his response back before his dad can start making noises about a swear jar again. 

"I'm thinking things you wouldn't like," he informs his father virtuously. 

"As long as that's all you're doing," his dad says, but not like he has much hope. "He okay?" 

"Yeah," Stiles says, distracted. "He can pick something up to eat on the way home if he's still hungry. That went okay, right? I mean, you liked him?" 

It takes a minute, but then his dad grudgingly admits, "Didn't hate him." 

"Yes!" Stiles punches the air and starts doing a victory dance that even he knows is obnoxious. The hip-thrusts are probably not something his dad wants to see. 

"He seemed kind of--" his dad says vaguely. 

"Awesome?" Stiles asks, letting his grinding drift to a stop under his dad's withering glare. "Scowly and sulky? And I might say _brooding_ if I were a girl, but I'm not, so I'm going to go with _smoking_ instead, though he doesn't! Smoke, that is." The glare is intensifying. "Reasonably non-objectionable?" 

"That last one," his dad grunts, turning to return to the remains of his steak. "On a good day." 

The triumph makes Stiles' hip-grinds more obscene. 

"I can see you!" his dad yells, though he can't, so Stiles cuts it out and grabs the phone. 

"He loved you," he tells Derek. There's a faint noise at the other end of the line. "You could sound a little more enthused, you know, this is kind of important to me." 

"I know." Derek's voice is low, and Stiles has to strain to hear it until he clears his throat and says again, "I know. I know how important your family is to you." 

"Yeah." Stiles starts going through the hamper, looking for something clean enough to wear to school. He'd meant to do the washing, but he's had a lot on his mind the past couple days. "So it's totally fine." Another small noise. "And I was thinking after school tomorrow you could come by and--" 

"I can't," Derek interrupts. "I'm busy." 

"You're," Stiles says, " _busy._ " 

This is certainly possible; it's just that Derek is never too busy for him now. Stiles frowns. 

"Yeah," Derek says. "Isaac's coming over to train. You could swing by instead?" 

"Okay," Stiles agrees easily. "But I'm not spending my whole day watching you two do your wolf thing. I'm getting some action out of this too." 

"Okay," Derek agrees, "okay." 

The line goes dead, so Stiles rings back. 

"We got cut off." 

"Did you want something else?" 

"No," Stiles says, thrown, and a little bit insulted. Derek's phone manner is never the greatest, but he can usually work himself up to a decent goodnight. Most nights he even sounds like he doesn't want Stiles to go. But Derek doesn't speak, and Stiles doesn't know what to say. "I'll see you tomorrow, then?" 

"Yes," Derek says. "See you after school." 

And he hangs up again, and Stiles stares at the phone, trying to figure out what just happened. 

*

Stiles wears his playtime-in-the-woods clothes to school the next day, because Derek responds to cues like that, although Stiles thinks it's less about any nostalgia associated with the clothing and more about the scent of arousal he's pretty sure seeps into the woven threads of the garments, kick of lust always in Derek's eyes when he catches the lingering scent under detergent and fabric softener. 

It's the same way Scott tells him sweat works, the base aroma of a person clinging to any fabric that's touched their skin enough, the reason Scott won't borrow his tshirts anymore, because they smell too much like Stiles, smell wrong on his body. 

He doesn't really even like Stiles borrowing his stuff; he allows it only because he can see how much it bothers Stiles not to, though Stiles tries not to let it show. 

So wearing the same clothes he'd had on when Derek had used his weight to hold him down and shove him into the mud and leave marks all over him should make him feel filthy, even though the clothes have been run through the machine, because he does realise that to a wolf he's basically walking around covered in the stink of his own fading arousal, but mostly he just feels jittery and excited at the thought of Derek's reaction, and that's enough to allow him to ignore Scott's mildly horrified expression all day. 

But the look on Derek's face when he sees Stiles isn't lust. It isn't anything Stiles recognises. 

Derek rises to his feet, releasing Isaac from the chokehold, and jerks his chin towards the door. 

"Are you done?" Stiles asks, baffled, as Derek comes nearer, crowds him toward the wall. "You're not done, are you?" 

"Hey," Isaac says on his way past. "Later." 

"Uh," Stiles says. "Bye!" 

Isaac waves a hand and vanishes. 

"So you didn't want to finish up?" Stiles asks, head tilting backwards in a useless attempt to follow Isaac's path down the hall. 

Derek regains his attention when his teeth latch on to the bared skin of Stiles' neck, but he lets go when Stiles says, "Hey," in a puzzled blurt that isn't quite meant to be a protest. 

His hands relax on Stiles' hips as his body sinks closer, pushing Stiles back against the brick. "That isn't what you want?" 

"It's--good," Stiles says, because it was, it _is_ , and then Derek is kissing him, ending the conversation more surely than any words either of them could speak. 

Stiles relaxes into it then too, letting the soft, familiar press and shift of their bodies reassure him, remind him that there's nothing to worry about here, and everything is warm and comfortable for a second, until Stiles lifts his head to take in a breath of air and his entire body stutters when he sees the sharp anxiety coil across Derek's face. 

He can't puzzle that through, can't force his frozen mind to make sense of it, because Derek is the one who knows what he's doing here; Stiles is the dumb, fumbling kid and Derek is the one who's done this before, who knows what the hell they're supposed to be doing, and there's no reason for him to look like that at all, and Stiles thinks he may have been mistaken, thinks he _must_ have been mistaken. 

And then Derek's dropping to his knees and going for Stiles' belt, nothing but determination and desire on his face now, and Stiles shakes off the idea that there ever was. 

He can't think about anything else while Derek is blowing him, and it's nothing but brilliant and blinding and too soon when he's coming in Derek's mouth, back arching over Derek's bent head, legs shaking and giving way, sending him sliding down to the floor with Derek's mouth still on him. 

Derek cleans him up the same way he always does, licking at his skin until it's clean and damp and he can tuck Stiles in and zip him up, nothing to betray what just happened to anyone who doesn't know already. 

"So the other night," Stiles says thoughtfully, sliding a hand over the front of Derek's jeans. 

"Yeah." Derek's voice is cautious, but his hips are twisting restlessly. Normally Stiles would stand up to do this, give himself a little more control, but it's kind of cool like this too, Derek flushed and mindless over him, hardly seeming to realise that he's rocking forwards into Stiles' stomach. 

"You didn't clean me up very well." There's a hitch in the rhythm of Derek's movements, giving Stiles the chance to pop some buttons and get at Derek's skin. "Couldn't have, really, but you didn't even try, and I had a fight with my dad about the mud." He clucks his tongue reprovingly, but he doesn't really know what he's saying, distracted by the redness of Derek's cock under his hand, hard and demanding and terrifying and so, so exciting. 

He tightens his hand experimentally, watching Derek's cock spill clear liquid over his knuckles, Derek's hips thrust roughly towards him, sending his dick sliding through Stiles' fingers, sending Stiles' fist back into his stomach, and Stiles loses track after that, because Derek keeps moving desperately, and he's trying to keep up with what's happening in front of him, against him, because of him, and he's trying not to let his head slam into the wall with the force of Derek's shifting body, trying to keep himself propped up and participating. 

Derek is speaking, but Stiles can't really track it, isn't sure it would make sense even if he could, because he thinks Derek is slurring _sorry_ , but he isn't sure why Derek would be. 

"Late," Derek moans sharply, and Stiles stares blankly, because he had been late, the other night, home from the woods past his always unenforceable curfew, but what relevance that has to anything he does not know. 

"You were late," Derek says again, voice strained and insistent, so Stiles says, "Yeah, I know, I know, I was," and Derek's face goes blank and his head goes back and he comes all over Stiles' shirt. 

"Sorry," Derek says when he sees the mess they've made of Stiles' clothing. "Sorry." 

"Eh," Stiles opines, "worth it." 

"You can wash those here," Derek offers. "Or I can--" 

"No offence," Stiles says, "but I've seen what you call laundry. I'll borrow some of your stuff to wear home." 

Derek hovers as he changes in the bedroom, and Stiles doesn't quite know what to do with that. He's feeling a little jittery himself, thinking about how easy it would be to reach for his jeans instead of Derek's shirt, to pull off the rest of his clothes and pull Derek towards the bed and figure out what could happen next. 

He might give it a try if he thought Derek's mind was taken up by the same thing, but there's an unsettled, unhappy intensity in the air, and while Stiles doesn't understand it, he's pretty sure that he doesn't want to invite it into bed. 

He smiles until it isn't forced, and then he turns around. 

"So my dad's home for dinner for once," he says brightly. "You want to come over?" 

"No," Derek says, absolutely. 

Stiles gapes. "But--" Derek is shaking his head frantically. "I told you he loves you, right? Maybe that's an exaggeration, but not a _massive_ one or anything! It isn't as if he's going to whack you as soon as my back is turned and get Scott to help him bury the body in the woods or anything." 

Derek's head-shaking only speeds up. "I have to finish Isaac's training, I have to--" 

"Whoa, dude," Stiles interrupts, "Are you actually scared of my--" He means to say something reassuring, but he starts laughing instead and he can't make himself stop. 

"I'll see you tomorrow," Derek says, a little stiffly. 

Stiles tries to say something in response, tries to kiss him goodbye, but he's laughing so hard he gets Derek's shoulder instead of his mouth, and the only thing he can get out is, "Wait until my dad--" and then he's hit by a renewed spate of giggles. 

But Derek stares at Stiles in his clothing with the lust Stiles had wanted to see, though it's more surprised than he would've expected, and he leaves his shirt stuffed under Derek's pillow, so he feels pretty accomplished by the time he leaves anyway. 

* 

"Hmm," is all his dad says when Stiles tells him about Derek's ridiculousness. 

"Hmm?" Stiles replies. 

"Nothing," his dad says irritably. "So does that mean I'm not getting that pork tonight?" 

Stiles makes the pork because he is a good son, but he cuts it with substitute because he really is a good son. 

Derek phones while it's in the oven. 

"Change your mind?" 

"No," Derek says grumpily. "You left your shirt behind. Want me to drop it over?" 

"Think of me," Stiles says, and then, "Okay, that's a little sappier than I'd intended, but 'sniff it and jerk off' seems kind of skeevy, so--" 

"You don't want me to bring it back?" 

"No," Stiles says, baffled. "That's why I left it there." 

"Oh." 

They share the silence for a second, and any other time Stiles would swear Derek is frowning at the phone too, but given the way things are going he isn't willing to bet on a sure thing right now. 

"Do you want me to bring it to the movies tomorrow?" 

"No!" Stiles says. "Stop trying to return my shirt, dude!" 

"Sorry," Derek says, and hangs up. 

Stiles' mouth is still open, confused words ready to spill out, but the dial tone is never a very receptive listener. 

He doesn't call back. 

*

The next day Stiles turns away from the movie theatre cashier and into his father. 

"Oh!" he says. "Hey! You working?" 

"Just checking in--" 

Derek drops the popcorn. 

"Derek!" 

"Oh, man," his dad says, "I'm not cleaning that up." 

"I'll get it." Stiles tries, but there are a lot of kernels, and fake butter is slippery. 

"Let me get you another," his dad offers. 

"No!" Derek says, startling Stiles into stillness. "It's fine!" 

"What are you two up to?" 

"Nothing! Nothing inappropriate!" 

"Well he was getting the tickets. And the popcorn," Stiles says, because his dad will like that. 

"Not for any reason you'd dis--" 

"We were about to--" 

"Go, I was about to go, I was just dropping Stiles off," Derek says frantically, and steps over the popcorn and away. 

"Uh," Stiles says, but Derek is already out the door, leaving Stiles alone with his father and the spilled popcorn. "You want to see James Bond?" he asks. "I've got a spare ticket." 

His dad _is_ working. 

*

"What the hell!" Stiles says when Derek pulls up. 

He'd watched the movie because James Bond, _hello_ , and then he'd called Derek for a ride because _Derek had been his ride_. 

"That was awkward," Derek says, fiddling with some bullshit on the dash, the _temperature_ control or something, Stiles does not give a shit. 

" _Yeah_ ," he says. "You made that really awkward, yes." 

"He didn't want me there," Derek says, staring out the windscreen at the road ahead. Stiles isn't sure he's seeing much. Stiles isn't sure he should be driving. "I thought it would be better for everyone if I just--" 

"What do you mean, he didn't _want_ you there!" Stiles interrupts. "That's ridiculous, okay, you do realise how _dumb_ you're being?" 

Derek flinches, and Stiles is so shocked he stops speaking. "Why else would he have been checking up on us," Derek says, voice low. "Checking to make sure--" He cuts himself off. 

Stiles knows he sounds a little hysterical when he demands, "Make sure what?" Derek doesn't answer, so Stiles says, " _What_ , Derek?" And then, "He didn't even know we were there, he was working, he was just in to see the manager." 

"Do you believe that?" Derek asks casually, and waits to hear the answer, which is why Stiles can't give him one. The look of mild curiosity Derek throws him makes him choke on his words. It makes him want to choke _Derek_. 

" _Yes_ ," he forces out. "Of course I believe him, I don't even understand what you're suggesting." 

Derek's face is blank as they roll to a stop in front of Stiles' house. "He's waiting for you." 

"The curtains are not twitching, dude," Stiles says angrily, knowing that's probably a lie, because no matter what Derek's weird problem is, a dad is still a dad. "Come on." Stiles doesn't climb out of the car because he doesn't trust Derek not to drive away. "You're coming in." 

Derek freezes and his hands tighten on the wheel, making the leather creak, but Stiles' fury propels him out of the car and up the path slowly. 

"I don't want to do this," he says. 

"Why not!" Stiles yells, before swallowing harshly and lowering his voice to a more reasonable level, false rationality not doing a very good job of covering up the crackling anger. "He's my dad, Derek, you're going to have to deal with him, and I really don't understand what's making this so difficult for you. Are you trying to break up with me?" 

Stiles doesn't think he is, but it is a possibility, and he's distantly glad the anger is overwhelming enough that he isn't forced to acknowledge it. 

Derek's shoulders hunch. "No," he says quietly, and when Stiles says, "Then get _inside_ ," he goes. 

Stiles' dad is sitting at the kitchen table, warming his hands around a mug. 

"That better be decaf," Stiles says automatically, and when his dad looks up, deliberately injured, he knows it isn't. "Derek came by to say hi." His dad looks at Derek, and then frowns at Stiles. "Say hi, Derek." 

"Hi," Derek says miserably. "Sorry about earlier." 

"That's all right," his dad says easily. "No skin off my nose. And everybody should go to the movies alone. Not as a regular thing, you understand, but everybody should be able to go to the movies alone. No harm done." 

"No," Stiles says loudly. "Harm done! Skin off my nose! My boyfriend abandoned me in the middle of a date because he doesn't--" It's difficult to say with his dad's mild eyes fixed on him. "He doesn't like you!" 

"That might be a problem, yes," his dad says slowly, eyes shifting to Derek, who Stiles is trying not to look at because _his_ eyes are darting ceaselessly around the room, looking for an escape route or something, some stupid, infuriating _thing_. 

"And at first I thought it was kind of funny that he was kind of scared of you, because people should respect the dad, okay, even if he's a total pussycat, hah- _hah_ \--" His dad's brow wrinkles, because he doesn't get why that's funny. "--but this isn't okay, this isn't--" 

"Stop," his dad says firmly, and Derek drops Stiles' hand and backs into the wall. Stiles looks down at his fingers curling in the air; he hadn't even realised they'd been holding hands. "Stiles, you're right." 

"Obviously," Stiles says, but the wind is out of his sails. 

"Derek, you can go," his dad says kindly, and when Stiles looks around again, the back door is swinging shut behind Derek. 

"We were talking!" Stiles protests. 

"You were yelling," his dad says, coming over all _dad_ , which is not fair, because Stiles hadn't even been the one who was making trouble. 

"I was not," Stiles says uncomfortably. "I may have raised my voice--" 

"I could hear you on the front step from in here," his dad says, shutting Stiles up. 

For a second. "He deserved it!" Stiles declares heatedly. 

His dad makes an equivocating motion with his chin, which is an ability Stiles needs to be hereditary. "You may not have had the greatest date tonight, but you ever give a thought to why that boy would be afraid of me?" 

"There's no reason," Stiles says sulkily. 

"No," his dad agrees. "But he is afraid." 

Stiles' shoulders slump. "It was kind of cute at first," he admits. "I mean, it's _Derek_ , you know, _grrr, arrrgh._ " His dad gives the stink-eye to Stiles' claw-hands. "It wasn't supposed to be real, I don't know what to do with that, it's _Derek_ , why would he be afraid of you?" 

"I did actually arrest him a couple years back," his dad offers. "And it was justified, but that kind of thing can cast a pall over a relationship." 

"People have done way worse things to Derek than arrest him for valid reasons," Stiles says in defence of his dad. 

"Yeah," his dad says. "I know." And he looks pointedly at Stiles. 

"What?" Stiles asks. " _I've_ never done anything worse." 

"No--" 

"This isn't some kind of 'apple doesn't fall far' thing, because I've never done anything like that to him!" 

"No--" 

"To his face!" 

His dad looks at him askance but shrugs it off and says, " _No_ , Stiles, _you_ haven't, but you know very well what his last girlfriend did to him." 

Stiles' mouth is open to reject his dad's argument before it registers, and when it does the distress keeps his face frozen that way like the wind has changed, like the idiot he sometimes worries he is. 

"No," he says, and then, less coherently, "That isn't--doesn't even--she wasn't his _last girlfriend!_ " 

"No?" 

She wasn't; Derek would have told him; Stiles would have _known_. Derek is the one who knew what to do, who knew how to do it, and he'd never pushed Stiles, but--he'd been good at it and Stiles had liked it, had liked how easy everything had been, how natural and how--slow. And how _would_ he know? 

He frowns, shaken and uncertain and hating it. 

"She hurt him," Stiles' dad says. "And I know you never would, but if she's the only thing he's ever known I don't see how he could know that too." 

"Shit," Stiles says. 

"Yeah." His dad doesn't even mention the swear-jar. His eyes sharpen on Stiles as he says, "And if the clues I've picked up on about this being some kind of family feud are accurate, well." He shrugs. 

" _Shit_ ," Stiles says breathlessly, staring at his dad blindly, heart pounding in his throat the same way it does every time he worries about his dad figuring out every last one of the secrets Stiles has been keeping from him, every time he wonders how close his dad already is to doing that, every time he imagines the look on his dad's face when he realises just how much Stiles has been hiding. 

"You should go," his dad says, and Stiles breathes out, off the hook again for however long that will last. The relief is shorter every time now. "Take care of that." 

"Yeah," Stiles sighs, jumpy and unsettled and eager to be gone, to be with Derek, to be out of this conversation. "I should make sure he's okay." 

"Stiles," his dad says, sounding surprised. "He isn't okay. The woman he loved hated him so much she burned his family alive." 

Stiles nods jerkily, mind shying away from the truth of that the way it always does, and then he nods again, breathes out sharply and settles on the thought. He blinks at his dad and swings out of the house without another word, breaking a speeding law or two on the way to Derek's. 

Isaac and Erica are watching television in the dark, but there's no sign of Derek. They don't look up when Stiles pokes his head into the room, so he retreats without speaking, getting back into his Jeep and driving out to the old Hale place, the place he should have known to go first. 

Derek's car is parked in front of the house, and Stiles is halfway to the front door before he realises Derek is sitting in it. He runs back down the steps and climbs into the passenger seat. 

Derek is staring up at the crumbling shell of his childhood home. It's a minute before he looks away, looks at Stiles, and then he only says, "I wasn't expecting you." 

The only illumination is the light cast by Stiles' headlights, barely glancing over Derek's car, so Stiles flicks on the overhead light. That draws the first immediate response from Derek; he reaches out and turns it off, leaving Stiles with the pale afterimage of his bewildered face. 

" _Derek_ ," Stiles says. 

"Why are you here?" 

He doesn't know how to answer that, and he's still thinking when he says, "To bring you home." 

"Oh." Stiles can see Derek turn back to the blackened front of the house, can see when he turns back to Stiles. "Okay." 

Stiles reaches past Derek to grab his keys from the ignition, and then he has to pull Derek out of the car and over to his Jeep. Derek is stiff and immobile, like he's been sitting there a long time, though Stiles knows he hasn't, not really. 

He has to shove Derek into the Jeep, and Derek is silent and still during the drive. At first Stiles thinks the numbness is going to make this easy now, is going to get them through this first time without discussion, but when they turn onto his street Derek seems to realise where they are. 

"No," he says, the word blunt and shocking in the quietness of the Jeep. "Stiles--" 

Stiles cuts the engine in front of his house and puts a hand on Derek's cheek, feeling the roughness of the stubble under his palm. "It's fine, Derek," he says. "My dad knows you're coming and it's okay." It might not be, but Stiles is sure his dad will collude to keep that from Derek. "You can come inside, it's fine. I want you to stay." 

Derek is shaking his head. "Your dad won't want me there, and I know how much--" 

"He won't mind--" 

"--I know how much he means to you, he's your _father_ \--" 

Stiles' heart twists, and he thinks about telling Derek that _his_ father would have welcomed Stiles, so of course Stiles' would do the same, but he never actually knew Derek's parents and maybe that isn't true, so he props his chin on one of Derek's shoulders, puts his hand on the other and presses their cheeks together in something that's as close to a hug as he's willing to try for right now. 

"I'm his son," Stiles says, "and he wants the best for me and I think that's you, and I'm his _son_ , so he's going to have to accept that. It's kind of his job, and he's always been good at his job. Good enough to figure out you weren't a killer, remember?" Stiles can feel Derek's body relaxing under his touch. His fingers are stroking the back of Derek's neck; he doesn't know when that started and it's relaxing him more than it is Derek, he thinks, but Derek doesn't seem to mind so he doesn't stop. "And this may not be what he wanted for me, but it's what _I_ want, and that's what he cares about. And he's my dad, and you're right, he means a lot to me, so I'm really glad that he thinks you're pretty okay." Stiles feels like he has to be honest, so he adds, "You know, for a boyfriend, but that isn't you, that's just us, it's just my dad--" 

"Yeah," Derek says. "I know." 

He comes inside the house. 

Stiles' dad is still sitting at the kitchen table waiting for them, though Stiles hadn't told him they were coming back. 

"Hey," Stiles says cautiously. "We're just going to bed." 

"Yup," his dad says, raising the coffee cup and an eyebrow. "These walls are thin." 

"I'm eighteen," Stiles reminds everybody, flushes horribly, and drags Derek up the stairs. 

"That went badly," Derek says when they're in Stiles' bedroom. "I feel like that went really badly."

"It's fine," Stiles says, too embarrassed to think about it. "He's met me before." 

He locks his bedroom door, just in case, and then he strips down to his boxers and throws on a tshirt to sleep in, throws a spare at Derek. 

Derek's movements are ungainly as he climbs into bed beside Stiles, and it's only then that Stiles thinks to ask, "Do you want to be here?" Derek is silent. "I mean, with me." 

"Yes," Derek says. 

"Oh," Stiles says, relieved. "Good, that's--because I really just--" He's thinking about what his father said, about someone Derek loved hating him and hurting him, and Stiles wants to reassure Derek but he doesn't know how to, not without assuming things about their relationship, not without moving faster than he thinks they should, without saying things he isn't ready to, yet, even if he thinks he'd mean them. "I just really want you to be here," he says instead, and it isn't enough. "I care about you, you know. I just--we're friends, right?" 

"Are we?" Derek asks after a moment, head pushing up under Stiles' jaw. 

Stiles slaps at him. "Hey! I mean, even if I decided I didn't want to do this with you, which trust, I am in no danger of deciding, you'd still want to be my friend, right? I mean, you _like_ me." 

The silence makes Stiles doubt, but then Derek is laughing softly into his skin. "Fine," Stiles says grumpily. "We want to be here, we can stop talking now, whatever, _shut up._ " 

Derek doesn't, but Stiles can't say the quiet laughter is unwelcome, and he curls into it, into the gentle touch of Derek's hands on his skin. 

"I don't," Derek starts, and tries again. "I don't really know how to--how to get what I want. I've never had that." 

"Oh," Stiles says, voice barely more than air, wondering what the hell they've been _doing_ , if not what Derek wanted, if not what he'd thought they'd both wanted. "What do you want?" 

Derek shrugs. "Nobody's ever asked me that," he says. 

" _Oh_ ," Stiles says again, voice rich and thick and urgent this time, arms reaching out. "Oh, you can _have_ it, Derek, you can--" 

Derek pushes his wrists back to the bed, over his head, and then he lets them go and drags his fingers down the tender flesh inside Stiles' arms, over his pits and down the sides of his body. "I don't know," he murmurs, but he sounds delirious with it already, and his mouth is coming down on Stiles' bared skin, his knuckles, the awkward jut of his elbow, his chin, his mouth. "I don't know, I don't know, I don't--" 

And he does, because he's taking it, kissing Stiles and pushing their bodies together, like he always does, against a tree, against a wall in the gym, against Stiles' sheets, now, holding them together warm and close and kissing and touching and moving so carefully until he's coming, pressed against Stiles, until Stiles can't help it, can't help himself, and has to come too. 

"Oh," Derek says, looking down at Stiles, and he sounds so surprised that Stiles can't help this either, has to pull him down into a deeper kiss, has to twine them together and hold them as close and comfortable as Derek had wanted and touch the back of his neck and the base of his spine and trace the dip of his skull and try to tell Derek that it's all okay. 

"Oh," Derek says slowly, surprise fading to memory, and when he pulls away it's only so he can get rid of their clothes and wipe them off and settle them down to sleep together, tangled sweet and easy and right. 

end.


End file.
